where would you go?

"If you could go back to any time and place, where would you go?"

A friend asked me this question last night. I'm not one to have immediate answers to big questions, so I had to think a bit, but my first thought was, "Only somewhere with a modern bathroom!" Priorities.

Assuming that this place was somewhere I could hop into and out of at will (so the lack of modern hygiene would not be such a deterrent), the place and time I would most like to visit would be the place and time of Jesus.

How churchy of me, right? I was almost disappointed in myself.

But for real, that's where/when I'd go. I'd like to see this man I claim to follow. And not just the man, but the community around him. Would I experience some kind of magical charisma that turned the world on its head? Or would Jesus be quiet, subtle, subversive? Would I even like him? What were his friends really like? Were they all as clueless as Mark makes them seem? What about those disciples who don't speak up in the gospels, the introverted ones? Thaddeus, for instance...who was Thaddeus? And the women...particularly the women. How did Jesus interact with them? Were they full friends, or did they have a different place in the community?

I know I can guess about some of these things from reading the gospels, but that's all it is really...a guess.

One thing I'm pretty sure of, though: If I saw Jesus in his own time and place, he would be unexpected, different-than-I-imagined.

But that doesn't stop my imagining.

Maybe it's good that I can't go back in time to see him in the flesh. Maybe the years and culture separating us would make him seem so foreign, so strange, so unintelligible, that I would only be further confused about how to follow His Way.

Or maybe he would look me in the eye and say, "Come, follow me," and the confusion would fade away.

my failure

A few nights ago, I tried to explain to My Girl what an immigrant and a refugee are. While talking about living in a new country, I mentioned that after college I lived abroad for a couple years. My Girl did not know this. She's almost 8 years old, and she did not know that I ever lived outside of the U.S. She has not heard stories; she has not seen pictures; she had not even heard the name of the countries (Bosnia/Croatia). How could this be?

It's been 13 years since I returned from my 2 years overseas working for a missionary organization. 13 years, and I have hardly spoken of it. With anyone. And when I do break the silence, I speak of it only in general terms. Honest, but not too revealing, because I can't say what I'm supposed to say.

I can't say it was rewarding (it wasn't).
I can't share touching stories (I don't have any).
I can't talk about lives changed or wonderful work done or purpose revealed.

I'm supposed to, but I can't. I once had a women's group ask me to speak about my experience for their annual missions luncheon. I spoke about my 3-week trip to Kenya instead, because what would I say about my time in Bosnia and Croatia?

"The people were beautiful but heartbreaking; the children I taught were sweet and spunky."
"I was a complete and utter failure."

Brené Brown says we're supposed to speak our shame. Well, here's my biggest shame: I believed God was calling me overseas. I went. I was awful. I came home disillusioned, scared, lonely, feeling broken.

During my very first week in Bosnia, another 2-year-stinter spoke about how she prayed that God would give her brokenness. I remember thinking, "Why the hell would you pray that?" I didn't say this out loud, of course. I'm still not sure I understand that prayer...asking for brokenness. I think she meant that she wanted to get to the point where she was fully dependent on God, but I'd still never ask for brokenness. It seems naive and unfair to those who truly are broken, who would trade that brokenness in a heartbeat. I don't want to be broken. I want to be whole.

When I think back to that time of my life, it seems so ridiculous that I stepped into that airplane, headed for a position as a "relational evangelist." What the hell was I thinking? I'm not good at building relationships in my own culture with people who are like me. How in the world did I expect I would be good at it in another culture? Miracles, I suppose. I grew up on missionary stories of miracles. I expected a miracle.

But there was no miraculous transformation. I was still me, in a position that didn't suit. I needed a more explicit job, with more support. I needed a roommate who didn't despise me. I needed some defined purpose... more than "meet people." And so, after 6 months in Bosnia doing not very much other than teaching a few English words to some refugee children and helping a missionary mom with her youngest homeschooler, I transferred to Croatia to be a homeschool teacher for a couple of brand-new missionary kids. It was a job to do. It was a purpose.

I loved those kids with all my heart. And I was a good teacher...to one of them, but not to the other. Not because I was intentionally negligent, but because I didn't understand what she needed until it was too late. So I had a job, but still I failed. And I was so isolated. Often those kids were my only companionship, my only conversation. Maybe that would've been OK if I'd believed I was still serving a good purpose, but I failed at even my very small purpose.

Now, I know that there are small bright spots in this picture I'm painting very bleakly. I did love those children, and perhaps I was a kind, caring presence in their strange new world. I did learn about what it means to be a stranger in a strange land. I learned I could survive. I learned what a life of privilege I lead. My perspective shifted, widened, changed. But I didn't contribute very much.

I am grateful for what I learned, and for any small brightness I might have added in someone's life, but if I could go back and speak to that girl in her tiny Bosnian room, sobbing with fear and shame and loneliness, I would tell her, "Go home. Sometimes it's OK to quit. Don't worry about disappointing your organization (that organization is going to change their rules and repudiate you in a year anyway). Don't worry about disappointing the family and friends who supported you, or the God who called you. They will welcome you with open arms. Don't worry about disappointing yourself. You will find new life. Go home."

I wonder, now, why I did it. Why I went, why I stayed. From the age of 14, I believed God was calling me to a life overseas. I think it was because I wanted to count for something; I wanted to make a difference. I believed sharing Jesus was the most important difference.

I still believe sharing Jesus is the most important difference, though I believe it in a different sort of way. And despite my added years of wisdom (or foolishness), much of that inner desire to count for something still pulls at me. I want to make a difference. I want to share Jesus.

Only these days, I don't expect miracles. I expect to fail.

No, that's too dramatic. I don't expect to fail at everything. I expect that I will complete school and hope that I will be a good occupational therapist. I expect that I will love my family to pieces and hope that I will be a good mom/wife/daughter. I expect that I will look for ways to be compassionate and kind, and hope that I will take first steps, even when they're scary. I don't expect to fail at everything, but I do expect to fail sometimes, maybe even a lot of the time.

I wonder what my 50-year-old self would say to me now. I imagine that somewhere in the speech would be, "Don't worry so much. Failing at a task doesn't mean that you are a failure. Keep trying; give yourself a break; don't miss the joy that is to come. And may your fear of failure always be overcome by your hope for brightness."

monday musings

Vacation is exhausting, but good friends are good for the soul. It was nice to feel un-lonely for a few days, and wonderful to see the kiddoes deliriously happy with their friends. Going to Busch Gardens on one of the hottest days of the year may have been a silly choice, but hey, the lines were short!

I had a yearly physical today and discovered that I've lost 9 pounds in the last year without really trying. I hope this is a sign that I'm doing something right in the diet/activity category and not a sign that I have diabetes.

Reading Real/Whole Food blogs makes me feel a little crazy. But I still do it. And then worry that we're all gonna die young from cancer. On a related note, I'm still trying to find a good whole-grain homemade sandwich bread recipe. One that slices and holds together well, and that the kids/man will actually eat as sandwiches. We've eaten lots of good bread this year, but none that are great for sandwiches. I'm thinking I need to try better quality flour. Maybe. I don't really know. I'm not daunted by bread anymore, but it's still such a mystery.

I love reading good fluff books, but it seriously impedes my ability to get stuff done and spend time with my family. One...more...chapter....

On a related note, I have TWO WEEKS to finish everything for my summer classes! ARGH!!!

I'm afraid My Girl is going to forget everything she learned in her very expensive swim lessons because we don't have/belong-to a pool. And The Boy hasn't even started swim lessons. I haven't signed him up for anything, ever, other than childcare. And I think they've both watched 50 episodes of Finneas & Ferb this summer (in addition to other things). I'm falling short as a suburban mom.

But we're in the midst of watching Season 2 of Dowton Abbey, so I'm (very slowly) catching up on cool TV cred.

Twice this summer, when The Man was gone, I've done worship-at-home with the kiddoes (instead of worship-at-church, not in addition to). Those were the best Sundays.

There is enough time. Apparently, that's what St. Benedict said. I hope he's right. I need to believe that he's right, instead of fearing the passage of time a little more each day.

quitting

We're now 2 weeks into summer break (for the kiddoes anyway...I still have class, ugh). It started well. A week of Art Camp that both kids enjoyed. Lazy afternoons of too much TV. Evenings of grilling out and playing with neighbors.

But then we hit week 2, the week I had signed The Girl up for Girl Scout camp, and we hit a snag. Turns out The Girl hates Girl Scout camp. We signed her up thinking she would enjoy it, but no. It's hard to get a straight story from a very dramatic 7-year-old, but her angst seems to stem from a combination of strict leaders (who don't let them splash in the creek!), boredom with too little activity planned, and feeling left out and lonely in this large group.

Now, we know another girl who is at this camp who seems to love it, so there's not anything seriously wrong with the camp. I'm sure most girls love it. But My Girl doesn't.

So what do we do? We've already paid for 2 weeks. Should she stick it out and hope it gets better? There's value in learning to carry through with things even when it's hard. No doubt. I don't want to teach my kids that quitting at the first sign of difficulty is OK.

BUT, summer is short. Girl Scout camp is not necessary. Childcare is, but Art Camp will gladly take her next week.

This has been a long, hard year for My Girl. She had to carry through with 2nd grade, even though she didn't want to go almost every single day. She also had to stick with piano when she didn't want to practice and stay on the softball team when she wanted to quit. Those were good lessons - school is not an option; she loves how much piano she can play now; she ended up having a great softball year. We've taught her at least a little that you can't just quit, not always.

But sometimes you can.

I remember what it was like to stay at a camp that I didn't enjoy, even though there was nothing wrong with the camp and everyone else seemed to be loving it. It didn't get better. I hated it as much the last day as I did the first.

I remember what it was like to endure a job position that was not good for me, even though everyone around me seemed to be having a good experience. Though I learned a lot from that time, I came home with scars.

My Girl is only 7. I'd like to give her a scar-free summer.

And so we're taking the easy way out and pulling her from camp. Maybe it's the wrong decision. Maybe I'm letting my own angst get in the way of a better lesson. But for this week I'm opting for responding to her desires. This week the lesson I'm choosing is What-You-Like-Matters.

Sometimes quitting is OK. Sometimes.

a new venture

My Man and I have started a new blog together:

Do Not Hinder Them

Our intention is to write about faith practices with children, specifically faith practices within the family (rather than just the church building).

We believe that faith begins and develops more at home (much more) than at church, but there's a tendency in our culture to leave faith education up to the age-based ministries that happen in the church building. There are lots of children's ministry resources focused on putting together a dynamic program, but programs are valuable only as the beginning of a faith conversation, not the end. My kids are at church more than most, but it's still only a few hours a week (which is plenty!). What they're taught at home, either through intention or unintention (non-intention?) matters more.

Which doesn't mean that church education doesn't matter. It does. Church is important for building community, for increasing a faith story foundation, for worship, for intentional time spent with a focus on experiencing God/dess. I have lots of opinions about what I want church to look like for my children! But I'll be honest here and say that many of those opinions have to do with what I don't want church to be for my children. I don't want them to experience fear in their faith; I don't want them to worry about fitting in with a certain church culture; I don't want them to learn an us/them mentality; I don't want them to feel judged or dread going to this place where their dad works (ah, the trials of a minister's kid); I don't want them to think of church as a place for entertainment.

What, then, do I want for them? And for me. And for us.

That's what we'll be talking about over at the new blog. We'll be speaking not as experts, but as try-ers. We believe that faith at home is of primary importance, but how are we intentional about that? We believe that church programs for children should be more experiencial and intergenerational, but how do we implement that? We believe that our own spiritual lives as parents and people are important (to our kids, our community, ourselves, God/dess), but what does that look like for a working couple?

We don't have answers, just some ideas, which I'm sure will change and mold over time.

I must admit that I am nervous. More nervous than I ever was about this small personal blog. I keep thinking, "We don't really know anything. What if we get it wrong? What if we're utter failures at trying on new ideas? What if we're just a disappointment?" The blog was my idea as a different way for my husband, the children's minister, to communicate with church families about faith development. But it's also this great desire of mine to have more conversation about this topic, to have more accountability, to encourage myself to think and practice more consistently with my family.

I don't know where this new blog will lead or what it will look like, really. It will change and mold as we do, I suppose. But we'd love to have you join in conversation with us there if you'd like. Let's encourage one another!

fun finds for friday

Nothing serious today. Just some fun little things that I have enjoyed recently:

• Freezie pop molds (silicone) - I love these things! My children clamor for the cheap freezie pops that come in neon colors in long plastic tubes and are mostly water, high fructose corn syrup, food dye and fake flavoring. I understand. I loved them as a kid, too, and I don't mind my kiddoes indulging in such a treat occasionally, but I only want it to be occasionally, and since they tend to get them other places, I'd rather not have them at home. But now we can make our own with whatever ingredients we want! The molds work with just juice or more complicated smoothie recipes, and the kiddoes love them just as much as the neon kind. Makes me happy.

• Art Box - My Boy is going to a birthday party for a little girl from his class next week. I don't know this little girl or her family very well, so I wasn't sure what to get for her other than the typical Disney Barbie-type present. And while we have certainly given our share of Disney Barbies (and own a few), I just wanted to do something different. So I made this Art Box, full of kid-friendly art supplies. It's a gift I would love :), but I don't know about this little girl. Maybe she and her family will think this is a weird gift, but I figure even if they don't really use the art supplies, the stackable plastic storage box (which I found at ACMoore) would be great for organizing other things. And you can never have too many organizers! I thought about painting the little girl's name on it but decided instead to use stickers. It's not ideal, as they'll come off, but then they can easily repurpose the container if they want.

• LOTS of Wood Craft Pieces - A couple months ago we started running out of craft paper. The Horror! The kiddoes were down to using those paper pads you get for free from businesses with their logo and info across the top. While they didn't seem too worried by this, I did finally decide it was time to re-stock the supply, and the best place to get craft paper of many kinds is Discount School Supply. But DSS is the best place to get all kinds of craft items, and if you spend $80, you get free shipping, so how could I pass that up? I ask you, HOW?!? So, much to My Man's surprise, I easily spent the necessary minimum for free shipping, partly because I ordered 2 awesome boxes of wood craft bits. One box is 5 lbs of finished pieces - just a random assortment, so you don't know what you'll get, but what we got was a box full of fun! The kiddoes loved going through it and immediately started building and imagining with our assortment (spools, disks, blocks, spindles, knobs, shapes, etc.). The other box is 10 lbs of pine scraps. These need to be sanded before they're used, but they're a great base for building projects, and I can imagine using them for all kinds of imaginative craftiness. Yesterday, we started painting some of the pieces with liquid watercolor (also from DSS), and they're beautiful! The watercolor acts kind of like a stain, so you can still see the grain of the wood, but the colors are very vibrant. Some of our pieces will continue to be used for play, some for making permanent structures and gifts.

• Carport Porch - As seen in the above picture, we've started using our carport as a side porch sometimes. We have a large back patio, but it doesn't have shade, and there's no door with direct access to it (why the builders didn't put a door in the dining room, I'll never understand). The lack of a back door has bugged me since we first moved in, but it turns out that the carport is great for playing, eating, and crafting since it's large and shaded. Why did we not think of this before?? Ah well, it's turned into a lovely multipurpose space where we can enjoy being outside without being baked. Love it!

So what small things have you enjoyed recently?

'round Roanoke update

It's been more than a month since I declared:

I, Susan of Roanoke, shall attempt to experience one new Roanoke-y thing every week!

Well, I can't say I've lived up to this declaration. Partly because I got sick with a horrible cold that made me want to sleep all day (and cough all night) so I had no energy for exploring for a couple weeks. But now that the cold is gone, we have done some "Roanoke-y" things that we've really enjoyed!

We finally hiked up to Peaks of Otter (the tip-top of a mountain). We cheated - we didn't hike all the way but took the bus most of the way and only walked the last 1500 feet, but that was perfect. It was enough hiking to enjoy the wildflowers and the rocky overlooks, but not so much that we were miserable or whiny. We ate our lunch at the top, and then hiked back down. I was, however, reminded that I am somewhat scared of heights. I'm fine if I feel secure, but being near an edge where it feels like I (or my child) could fall over makes me feel nauseous. No tightrope walking for me!

Tippy-top of Peaks of Otter
You can't see all the little gnats flying around our faces!

We also enjoyed walking and biking on the Roanoke Greenway from Wasena Park to Smith park. The kiddoes loved playing on the playgrounds and the new greenway fitness equipment. We all enjoyed flinging/skipping rocks in the river, and the kids managed to ride their bikes on the trail without knocking anyone over! 

We've been blessed with some beautiful weather, and I've loved being outside with no real agenda other than enjoying the day and noticing the beauty. 

monday musings: talk, do, struggle, live

I've gone a bit quiet on the blog the last couple of weeks. I've been feeling like all of my thoughts are expressed better in writing by others, so there's no need for me to add to the Internet mix. And that's true - there's no need. But I started this blog for my own spiritual practice and for my children. Those goals haven't changed. Maybe I need to just write and not worry about whether it's meaningful enough.

So here's something I've been thinking about:

I was thinking today about the word I picked as my focus for this year - voice. It seems ironic to me right now, as I feel little motivation to have a voice, and I'm so tired of talking. Not the physical act of talking, which I don't do that much of, honestly. But the sometimes incessant chatter of my world. Classes, meetings, blog posts, news, church - there's so much noise. Much of it is good noise, good thoughts expressed, important news shared, thoughtful analysis given. But I'm tired of so much talking and thinking.

I want more doing.

I need more doing.

It's easier to talk (or in my case, it's easier to listen). It's harder to do.

Don't get me wrong...talking is an important part of doing, especially for those who are writers and speakers illuminating life, struggling with the difficult places, encouraging a new vision. Voices play a profound role in shaping our communities. Voices challenge us. Voices reveal we are not alone. Voices lift us up (or tear us down). I deeply value those who write and speak. They are often a lifeline to me, and I love that we can hear and talk to so many people. I love that we gain a broader perspective and think new thoughts because of the hard, beautiful work of writing and speaking artists. I love that we can become community by the sharing of words.

But community isn't just words.

It's easy (for me) to get caught up in the talking and the listening and stop there. I don't allow the talking to mold the choices I make...not really, or not enough. The voices may begin a work on transformation in my soul, but the transformation is incomplete when it doesn't reach to my hands and feet. I don't let the voices fully change me.

I don't let Her Voice change me.

I need the voices, and the Voice. I need to cultivate my own voice. But I also need to step away from a voice box and move my hands and feet. I need connection. I need to serve. I need to love, in physical life-giving ways which includes my voice but doesn't stop there.

And I need to recognize love and service and purpose in the daily minutiae of the life I am already living. I need to see the worth as it is, as I am. I tell My Girl every day, "God made you beautiful," which I believe wholeheartedly about her but tend to disbelieve about myself. I see the brokenness and the shortcomings and the apathy and the mistakes. I see the shadow, which is important, but I also need to see the light.

There is such a tension here:

• To recognize the light and beauty and wonder of life as it is AND
• To strive to see more light, to create more beauty, to share more wonder...to change.

Both are hard. Both are infinitely valuable. And both are worth the struggle.

thursday thoughts

A stream of consciousness for today:

• I love the spring. I love the greenness, the vibrant colors, the torrential rains. It's so alive.
• We're in the middle of softball season, which began as a season of angst and drama. My Girl is not good at becoming one with a group (wonder where she gets that from?!?). But we jumped a hurdle last week...she finally, finally, finally got to play in the pitcher position (her most coveted), and she got 3 outs in that game (which, for this mini mite league, is a lot). Since then she has been much happier, more confident. It's nice to see her smile. And she still does ballerina twirls in the dirt!
• My Boy has been clinging to me more lately. I think this past very busy semester took its toll on us all. There were some days I would hardly see the kiddoes. We survived fine, but we missed each other. I'm glad it's done.
• But now the summer semester begins. Ugh. It shouldn't be as bad as the spring, but I'm still tired. Probably because I have a cold. I'll feel better about it tomorrow.
• I love my new ice cream maker (Mother's Day present). I love that I can come home from work, and 30 minutes later I'll have wonderful, fresh ice cream ready. This does nothing for my half-hearted attempt to reduce the amount of sugar I eat (lots of diabetes in my family), but right now I just don't care! I'm less tempted to eat a huge bowl of the real stuff, anyway. A little of the wonderful richness is highly satisfying.
• We're ready for school to be done. The kids' school, that is. Particularly The Girl's. Academically, this has been a good year for her. Personally, it's been very hard. We're ready for a break.
• Both kids are obsessed with Transformers right now. I blame The Man. And the library...for carrying the old cartoons on DVD. I cannot for the life of me transform the big Transformers! Those are seriously difficult suckers to work. The Boy doesn't even ask me anymore. "I'll ask Daddy" gets said a lot.
• Now that the main piano season is done and the recital is over, The Girl plays the piano All.The.Time! When I wanted her to practice, it was an ordeal. Now that she doesn't have to, that's all she does. Sometimes I think she has a Drive.Mommy.Crazy setting, and it's almost always on.
• We're reading Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator (sequel to the Chocolate Factory) out loud with The Girl right now. I had to skip large parts of one of the chapters because of the cultural insensitivity. *sigh* I don't remember these things.
• The Man went to a great children's and youth ministry conference last week. It's good to see him passionate and excited. And it's fun to begin working on a new project with him. More on that another time.
• The Man brought home from the conference a Jesus Storybook Bible to read with the kiddoes. The Boy was skeptical...it disrupted his usual story routine at bedtime. But now that's his most favorite book! He doesn't want me to stop reading it, and he won't let me take it out of his room so we can read it with The Girl, too. It's kinda sweet. And a reminder to me not to overlook the spirituality of little kids, and the power of story.
• I started to think about trying the Couch to 5K program again. I'll get over it tomorrow.

That's all for now!

mom enough

There's been lots of chatter this week about the TIME magazine cover titled "Are You Mom Enough?" that pictures a beautiful young mother breastfeeding her three year old son as he stands on a stool. It's a weird picture and an obvious ploy to sell more magazines, though perhaps the actual article (which is supposed to look at attachment-style parenting) is good. I don't know. I'll never read it. Not because I'm opposed, but because I don't care enough about it.

The so-called "mommy wars" have never meant much to me. I know that they are real, that women and mothers do judge one another for their choices, that some mothers face a lot of criticism from other mothers, that some mothers feel they must defend their decisions while other mothers feel their decisions are the best decisions for everyone.

But I am not one of those mothers. I have never been in a position where I felt like other mothers were judging me for my mothering choices. Not other mothers in my physical presence, I mean (I could find plenty on the internet, I know). Maybe they were. Maybe they were rolling their eyes like crazy behind my back, but I can't point to a specific instance or even a general time when I felt like others were judging me "not mom enough." Now, I can remember plenty of times when I worried that my screaming, out-of-control, monster child must make me look like the worst mom in the world, but I can't remember anyone doing something to make me feel that way. No one ever said to me, "Why can't you control that child?" No one ever gave me a stink-face. No one ever gave me unsolicited advice.

Am I just blind to the judgment around me? Maybe.
Do I exude a stay-off-me vibe? Probably.
Am I ambivalent about what others think about me? Definitely not.

I regularly worry about what others think - too much - even though I'm not supposed to.

But still, no one has ever done or said anything specifically to me to make me feel like a bad mom.

I do that to myself.

Every morning when my child cries that she doesn't want to go to school because she's so lonely, I worry that I'm a bad mom. Every afternoon when I should be excited to see my kids after a long day of work and school but really just want some time to myself, I worry that I'm a bad mom. Every evening when my temper flares and the bedtime battles bring out the worst in me, I worry that I'm a bad mom. Every single day, I worry that I haven't built them up enough, haven't guided them gracefully enough, haven't hugged them strong enough.

I worry that I am not mom enough.

I don't need magazines or communities or mommies to tell me I'm not mom enough. I've got that one covered all by myself.

I don't have the right answers...for my own children or for others. It amazes me that some mothers seem so sure. From the moment that tiny little girl with the winking eye and the spiky brown hair was placed in my weak, trembling arms, I have been unsure. If I ever thought being a  mom would make me stronger, I was wrong. Very, very wrong. Being a mom has brought out every insecurity a hundredfold. It has brought me to my knees in fear and dismay and hope and an overwhelming love that is terrified of getting it wrong.

And I will get it wrong. I do get it wrong. A lot.

But I do not get it ALL wrong.

As I tell My Girl in her angstiest moments, "I love you with my whole heart, always, no matter what." It's not always enough, that love. It's not enough to fix the past and ensure the future. It's not enough to heal all the hurt and right all the wrong. But it is enough to heal some of it. And it is a gift I can give my children that many children don't receive.

My love, my choices, my actions will never be truly enough. I cannot be everything for them. But I can try to be the best me for them.

Am I mom enough? No, I'm not. If there is such a thing, that role belongs to Another. Another Mother who will heal all the hurts and right all the wrongs in the end. But that Mother is not me.

I am not an enough mom, but I love my kids with my whole heart, always, no matter what. And that makes me a good mom.

another perspective...

I've read a number of things in response to the passing of NC Amendment One. Critical and thoughtful things. Happy and celebratory things. Sad and angry things. Gracious and kind things. But in my opinion, this is one of the best:

Why I almost didn't vote AGAINST Amendment One, written by a seminary colleague who lives her faith more than anyone else I know. She has more than earned the right to point to our (my) blindness. Read it, please.

Amendment One is wrong. It is right that so many fought against it.

But it is not the only wrong, and too many people have no one to fight for them because we (I) turn a blind eye to them. We (I) hide in our safety zones. We (I) ignore what we don't want to see. There may be no amendment to fight against, but there are still people who need advocates, neighbors, friends.

It's easy to type out a few words and click "publish." It's not so easy to do something about the walls.

and so it goes...

Yesterday NC Amendment One passed, much to no one's surprise, but to many's great sadness. I shed some tears and said some prayers for those I know (and don't know) who are affected by this. Stating the obvious here, but the majority is not always right, and sometimes they are very, very wrong. **

Sometimes the road seems too long and the way too rocky, but a facebook friend reminded me (sometimes fb has its uses!):

"The moral arc of the universe, though it is long, bends toward justice."
 - Martin Luther King, Jr.

Though justice sometimes seems so far away (particularly when we can't even agree on what it is), sometimes it is closer than you expect, like here.

Love will win in the end. This I believe.


** I know there are good people who disagree with me about this issue. I don't doubt their goodness, but I do believe they're wrong. 

for the record...



photo by essygie, flickr


If I still lived in NC, today I would vote AGAINST Amendment One...the proposed amendment to the NC Constitution which would define marriage as between one man and one woman and would "void other types of domestic unions from carrying legal status."

Gay marriage is already illegal in NC. The amendment will just make it harder to change that in the future. But the amendment also threatens custody, abuse protection, health care, and heath care decisions for both minors and adults in families without a marriage certificate. And that's just nuts.

For the record...I support gay marriage. Not just domestic partnership...marriage. In the church. I believe a man and a man or a woman and a woman can commit themselves to each other for a lifetime family of faith, including having and raising children. I believe this not in spite of my faith, but because of my faith. I believe Jesus would dance at gay weddings and turn their water into the most fabulous wine.

This is what I believe, but even if I didn't, I hope that I would still reject Amendment One, because it is redundant, mean-spirited, dangerous (to heterosexual families, too) and does nothing to protect marriage. My marriage is not threatened by gay couples. My children's view of relationships is not threatened by gay couples. They will not become either homosexual or heterosexual because of the marriages they see. What can threaten marriage in our society is not laws allowing for it, but a society that is flippant with relationship commitment...of any kind.

I know that the Amendment is likely to pass, not because a majority of NC citizens necessarily support it but because the voting population does. I hope that I am wrong, but I am skeptical. I believe that even if it does pass, it will be overturned eventually, because that is the direction our country is headed, one slow step at a time. I suppose that is why the Amendment was proposed...to halt those steps for a time. It won't be forever...this I believe...but in the meantime, families and individuals will be needlessly hurt by this Amendment. And that just makes me sad.

'round Roanoke



photo of Roanoke from Mill Mountain by taberandrew, flickr


When my mother came to visit us over Easter, she brought with her an article from her local Oklahoma paper...about Roanoke! Seriously...an Oklahoma paper picked ROANOKE as a nice tourist destination, putting it front and center in their living section, with a big picture of Hotel Roanoke above the fold.

Once I got over my shock (I'm a little surprised that anyone in Oklahoma had even heard of Roanoke!), I decided the article made a good point - Roanoke really does have some good things to offer. I've known this, and enjoyed a number of Roanoke-y things in the past couple of years, but I think there's much more to explore. And since I've declared that we can NEVER MOVE AGAIN, it seems like a good idea to find out more about my adopted home town.

I've never before had a home town. Ever. I don't know what it means to feel a place in your blood, not really. This isn't a bad thing. It makes my perspective wider, my experience broader. But if this town is the place I'm finally going to put down roots, then I'd better work on it, because I don't know how to put down roots, and I want to embrace this place for what it is as well as what it can be.

So beginning now, I'm setting a new goal (and we know how good I am at sticking to goals...hear the sarcasm):

I, Susan of Roanoke, shall attempt to experience one new Roanoke-y thing every week!

Every week! That's too much, I know. I'll never meet that goal, but I might as well aim big! And a disclaimer:  "Roanoke-y" shall include all things in the city and county of Roanoke as well as the surrounding area...anything I can reasonably get to and from in a day.

I've already made a start on this. We went with my in-laws to the Roanoker restaurant for breakfast this weekend. Despite the fact that I pass this restaurant every.single.day, I had never before stepped into it. And this was the restaurant that the Oklahoma paper declared THE BEST place for biscuits. So goodness, we needed to try out THE BEST biscuits! (they were very good, though I wouldn't personally call them THE BEST)

For the upcoming weekend, I'm hoping to go to Blacksburg for the first time ever (I can hear the gasp of dismay from the VT folks).

Then what shall be next? If you're local and have suggestions, let me know! I'm excited (and my homebody self is a little nervous) to step up our Roanoke adventure. What shall we see 'round Roanoke? What shall we experience? Who shall we know? (and why all the "shalls"?) I'm starting as a tourist, really, but I hope that over time it'll seep into my blood and become home.

thursday thoughts

I'm in the middle of the mad dash to the end of the semester. No time for organized thoughts, just a dumping ground:

• It's almost over!!! The semester from heck, that is. Actually, it hasn't been as bad as I feared it would be, but I'm still mighty ready for it to be done. This morning The Girl told me she would be glad when I wasn't a student anymore because she doesn't get to see me much right now.  Fortunately, the rest of the schoolyear should be better as it's supposed to be all downhill from here.
• The Girl's first piano recital is tonight. I'm hoping she'll play toward the beginning and then The Boy will flip out (AFTER her pieces) so I can leave (!). Except I think The Man might wrestle me for the privilege of being the one to walk out (and we know who would win that match).
• Yesterday I tried to price what it would cost us to go to DisneyWorld. *sigh* Too much, of course. I don't know why I did that to myself.
• I'm tired of facebook making me feel like the uncool kid who never gets invited to the parties (still). Stupid facebook, I know it's not your fault, but I love/hate you.
• I read this post about sexual trafficking and just about lost my faith in God/dess (again). I do not understand how there can be such evil and suffering in the world if a good God/dess is somehow over it all. I get that in our freedom, we are free to make and do awful things. But shouldn't there be a line somewhere that can't be crossed? I still believe (partly because the alternative is worse - that there is no ultimate "love wins"), but I feel closer to the agnostics these days. I still love the message of Jesus, but it's hard to see God/dess in the daily rape and torture of young girls.
• I want a sabbatical from church. It's not gonna happen, but it sounds nice, nonetheless. I don't want a break from community. Just the opposite, in fact. I want to find community. But I also want space for some spiritual intention and searching and listening and trying, and sometimes (often) it's hard to find that (for me) in church. It may be my own issue more than the church's (I think it's a combination), but the issue is real and only seems to loom larger as time goes on. How did I get to this place? And where do I go from here?

Huh. These were kind of dark and dreary thoughts. To match the rain today, I guess. I should've titled this Thursday Thankfulness and forced myself to look for the gifts. There are many, after all.

• a whole afternoon alone with My Man for his birthday.
• a lovely wedding in which my Friend smiled a big, huge smile the entire day.
• children who are healthy and run to me even before I get out of the car.
• a home with much, much more than I need.
• extended family who love and care without strings.
• springtime. even in the rain.
• friends who understand my angst and love me anyway.
• hope for a new tomorrow.

There is goodness in the midst.

all of me?

A few days ago I saw a former minister of mine for the first time since college. I was looking forward to it. I thought it would be fun to share stories, even briefly.

So when I saw him, I asked him what he was doing, how he liked it. He told me about his kids, his town, his job. And then he asked me..."How many kids do you have?" "What does your husband do?" "What kind of minister is he?" "What kind of Baptist is he?"

And that was it. He moved on to the next person.

Kids.
My husband's job.

He never asked about me. Though he later grilled my husband about his job, he still never asked about me. It kinda stung.

I love my kids, and I love my husband. They are, without a doubt, the greatest gifts in my life. But they are not me. They contribute to the whole of me, but they are not all of me.

Now, it doesn't really matter that I didn't get to share much of myself with someone I haven't seen in 15 years and will probably never see again. It does matter, though, that I try to see all of the person in front of me, whoever that may be. It does matter that I ask, that I listen, that I see. It matters that I put the computer down, close the book, step away from the busy-ness, step over the fear.

This is a good reminder for me in these busy days of almost-but-not-yet, when it's too easy for me to bury my head. The people in front of me matter, more than my own schedule or frustration or timidity.

I matter, and so do you.

 

my easter monday miracle

I will always think of the day after Easter as the day I was given life when I expected death.

Five years ago, I was pregnant. The week before Easter I had that first pregnancy-confirmation doctor's visit where you're supposed to see the "bean" and the heartbeat. Only there wasn't a heartbeat. I wasn't too worried because I thought I was only about 6 weeks along rather than 8. The doctor, though, ordered some blood tests and we made another appointment for the day after Easter.

After lots of phone calls to the lab about lost blood and going back to the doctor to get it re-drawn, I finally talked to a nurse about my bloodwork on Maundy Thursday. Much to my shock, she told me I would almost certainly miscarry (really, I think she would've left out the "almost" except that medical professionals are taught to never be certain). She gave me instructions about calling the doctor on call (since everyone would be out for the holiday) and going to the hospital as soon as the inevitable began. She may have said, "I'm sorry," but I don't remember, though I do remember sitting on our guest bed with the embroidered sage green satiny duvet cover.

Thus commenced the longest Holy Weekend of my life as I waited for death to come.

Only it never did. And on Easter Monday at that next doctor's appointment, the bean and the heartbeat were alive and strong.

And I cried tears of joy as I choked out, "She told me I would miscarry."

The doctor was shocked. It turns out that my blood hormone levels were low, but not really low enough to say I would almost certainly miscarry. The nurse had made a mistake. Part of me was angry at her, but mostly I was just so very, very thankful for a tiny beating heartbeat. So very thankful for life ... unexpected life.

My Boy wasn't really a miracle, just a bit of a medical anomaly. But to me he will always be my Easter Monday Miracle. How much we would've missed without this beautiful heartbeat:

Godly play: palm Sunday

Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!

I love the palms. And the praise. And the donkey. And the subversiveness of our Lord. But there is an undercurrent of both mania and tragic sadness in this story. Oddly enough, it reminds me a bit of the Hunger Games this year - cheering for the one who will die.

But I did not draw that connection for my children. I stuck to the script! Here's our very simple road to Jerusalem and our posterboard Jesus. (For a more fabulous picture of what a Palm Sunday story can look like, check out Watkins Every Flavor Bean.).

Also pictured in the top picture are our prayer pots, which now contain a heart (to remind us that God loves us always), a bean (to remind us that God helps us grow), a bandaid (to remind us that God helps us when we hurt) and a coak and palm branch (to remind us to praise God).

Below the road to Jerusalem is pictured a Holy Week family devotional guide which My Man organized for our children's ministry at church. I think it's pretty fabulous. For each day of Holy Week, there's a one-page devotion with Scripture, some kind of physical item (like a palm leaf for Palm Sunday or coins for clearing the Temple) and a question for the family to consider for that day.

In addition to the daily family devotion guide, I hope to tell the Maundy Thursday Godly play story (which includes Good Friday) and the Easter story this week. This is going to be a busy week, so I'm frankly unsure if I'll manage to get it all together, but I hope so.

May we walk in the footsteps of Jesus this week.

a bright new day?

I don't know why I named this blog "This Bright Life." Really, what was I thinking? I mean, I know I thought it would encourage me to look for the brightness, but I'm not really a sunshiney girl.

I'm the girl who can't watch the Hunger Games trailer without crying. I'm the girl who lives in fear that I will die young (or my children or husband will - depends on the day). I'm the girl who feels perpetually inadequate. I'm the girl who avoids the news because it overwhelms me with sadness.

But I didn't avoid the news of Trayvon Martin.

And I didn't avoid the meanness (and racism) that spewed from Internet commenters.

And I have been overwhelmed with horror.

Others have written much more eloquently about the tragic loss of Trayvon and the hidden prejudice it brings to light. Among others: Glennon Melton, Jen Hatmaker, and the one that helped me the most, Shaun King. I have no real wisdom to share. But to my children I will say:

Please, please don't deny someone else's experience because it's different than yours.

I don't know what it's like to be black in America. Or what it's like to have a black son. But I do know that racism and prejudice still exist, and that to deny that is to deny the very real experience of a whole lot of people. And the very real experience of my own heart.

Yesterday I kept looking into the sweet, chocolate-brown eyes of my very white son, trying to imagine the horror of his life being taken from me by someone who thought he just didn't look right. And dear god in heaven, I found myself being thankful that he is white. Not because white is better, but because it's safer. What a screwed-up world we live in. And what a screwed-up heart is mine.

Which is why my tendency is to feel hopeless. How can we make the world a better place when we're so far apart? How can we come together when we're all so deeply entrenched in our own prejudices and myopic views? How can we I make a difference when we I have no position of power or influence, and no idea (or desire?) of how to get one?

Yesterday, in my despair, I drove off to a volunteer assignment for school. I was to hand out health surveys at an African American congregation's midday Lenten service. I didn't know the purpose of the surveys (turns out the hospital system is partnering with the local free clinic to plan for a new clinic in which the two entities will be partnered). I was just going so that I could check off the "volunteer" box for my degree requirements.

After handing out the surveys, we stayed for the service. It was very short (only about 30 minutes) but oh, so full. The music alone was worth the staying, but the part that sticks with me the most is the moment when the pastor stood up and said, "This candle is lit in memory of Trayvon Martin and for his family...and for all the families here who have experienced this kind of tragedy." In that moment as I was struggling not to cry, I realized that the feeling in the room was not one of despair, but of strength and of hope.

This community has probably known of the tragedy since it happened a few weeks ago, before the mainstream media took it and ran with it, before I ever heard the name of Trayvon. I would imagine that their first response was also one of weeping and rage and despair, but if my imagining is right, they didn't stay stuck in that despair. They don't let despair have the last word.

They stand together with victims, but they don't despair. They desire for changed hearts and a better tomorrow, but they don't despair. They take responsibility for their own role in working toward a better tomorrow, but they don't despair despite the challenges and setbacks. In that service, the hum of hope and holding of hands washed over me, the outsider, lifting me up along with them. They are a community, and I felt the strenghth of the community in that place.

It is easy for me to despair. It is harder to look for hope. But I will try. I will remember that though we are far from the promised land, we are closer than we once were. I will remember that progress has been made, even when it seems too little and too slow. I will remember that hands bigger than mine are holding the whole world in its terrible, awful messiness. I will remember that a new day is coming.

"In the sweet by and by, what a day of rejoicing that will be..."

trapped



photo by poweron, flickr


We went to Durham this weekend. As much as I love Durham (our previous home), I worry that trips there may be bad for my health. My last trip to Durham precipitated a horrendous bout of homesickness. This trip didn't make me feel so much homesick as trapped. It's not really Durham's fault - I was already falling into an inner cage before the trip. Durham just solidified the bars...for a moment.

For weeks now I have been laying awake (lying awake? that's one grammar rule I never got down) at night feeling a mild sense of suffocation and fear. Not about life as it IS, but about life as it COULD BE. I have been feeling trapped in this place...this home in Roanoke. Not because I want to go anywhere else, but because I can't. Screwy, right? Yes, I am an emotional mess.

I realize the ridiculousness in a lot of ways. I have no desire to go anywhere else at the moment. I have repeatedly stated that I never want to move again because the last moving process was so awful. I like my home and my adopted city. I enjoy being near my in-laws. I know some wonderful people here.

But still I have been feeling trapped and regretting that we took on a mortgage at this time. If only we'd rented! Because what if another place would be better for my children? What if another place would offer better job opportunities? What if another place would be less lonely? What if another place would feel more like home? What if...What if...What if...?

I have been telling myself that this trapped-ness is God/dess's way of making me stay put. Her way of saying, "Invest yourself in this place without always looking for another." Her way of saying, "You wanted your children to have a place-tied home, so now live it!" Her way of saying, "THIS, this is the place for you, even when it's imperfect and confusing and hard. THIS is home."

And I sort of believe it. Maybe. Or maybe this is just what I tell myself when the suffocation is too much. I'm not really sure.

But yesterday smacked me in the face with my ridiculousness.

Yesterday I spent the day at Western State Mental Hospital (previously known as Western State Lunatic Asylum) for a fieldwork rotation. Sitting in a therapy group with a man who stated vehemently that if he ever got out of Western State, he never wanted to see another wall again and would spend his days under the stars, I suddenly realized: I am not trapped. I am free. So very free.

I am free to choose where to live. I am free to travel wherever I wish. I am free to go to the grocery store and cook whatever food I want. I am free to spend my days with my family, to call up a friend, to use my mind in whatever way I choose. I am free to pursue my sense of self and my ever-changing view of purpose.

I am not free to do whatever I want without consideration of consequences or the effect it will have on others, but I have much more freedom than most. I am not trapped. I have some boundaries, but they are wide. And maybe, just maybe, those boundaries will help me to notice the bright life I have in this place right here, right now. Maybe I will learn to plant myself, to settle, to be.

"Home is where the heart is," they say. May my heart be here.

PS. I loved Western State. It is a lunatic asylum no more. It is not perfect, but it's a good place. If I had the ability to teleport myself (it's about an hour and a half from here), I might even consider working there. But I will plant myself here instead ;).

poetry

Zero Circle
found at Talk with the Preacher

by: Rumi (Version by Coleman Barks)



Be helpless, dumbfounded,

Unable to say yes or no.

Then a stretcher will come from grace

to gather us up.



We are too dull-eyed to see that beauty.

If we say we can, we're lying.

If we say No, we don't see it,

That No will behead us

And shut tight our window onto spirit.



So let us rather not be sure of anything,

Beside ourselves, and only that, so

Miraculous beings come running to help.

Crazed, lying in a zero circle, mute,

We shall be saying finally,

With tremendous eloquence, Lead us.

When we have totally surrendered to that beauty,

We shall be a mighty kindness.

a gray mom



I never knew parenting would be so hard. What a cliche, right? But it's true. I don't know what I thought, exactly, but somehow I expected that I would have some idea about the right way to raise my children, the right choices to make, the right discipline to use, the right way to love.

I was wrong. Oh, so very wrong.

I have ideas, but they change, and they're conflicting, and I'm rarely very confident in them. And some of them are just unworkable in our particular situation and context. Are other mothers this unsure, this conflicted, this scared?

Maybe my ambivalence is a consequence of my nature. I've always been pretty good at seeing both sides of an issue, but not so good at making choices. I live in a very gray world. Sometimes I wish there were more black and white. Or at least more clarity in the shades of gray.

I want an answer, dammit! I want to know how to make it better. I want to know how to provide my kids with the best. And I don't mean the best stuff... I mean the best foundation for confidence and compassion and purpose and love. I see pieces breaking and I don't know how to put them back together.

Yesterday the bright spring day seemed so hopeful, so energizing. Today it seems to be mocking me.

I know that tomorrow will be different, and the same, and somewhere in between. But right now I would gladly give up all purpose and talent of my own if it would get me the glue and the schematics to put the pieces together again.

first Godly play story: the great banquet

When The Boy realized I was gathering supplies to tell a story, he kept asking, "Can we tell the story now? Can we tell the story now?" I did not know he would be so fascinated.

The Girl was mostly silly. She listened, she responded, but she was also silly and irreverent. That's OK. She's a girl who craves silliness and drama. I want her to know that God/dess laughs. But I may need to set more clear expectations next time..."this is a sacred space, and for a moment we will be still and quiet"...something like that.

I told the parable of the Great Banquet even though in the Godly Play curriculum, it is not a Lenten story. It was the story, though, that the kids had heard in Sunday School this week.

Now I have a question for all of you:
The kids' Sunday School curriculum referred to the Matthew version of this story, and because The Girl's class actually read the story from the Bible (and not just the curriculum), she heard the part where a guest without wedding clothes (who I guess tried to sneak in) gets bound and tossed "into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth" (v. 13), and Matthew concludes with "for many are invited, but few are chosen." Luke mercifully leaves out this whole section of the story, and I think I'm with Luke...I'd edit it out. But Matthew seems to like weeping and gnashing of teeth, and that's the version My Girl heard. And of course, that's the part she focuses on. Now here's my question...How do you explain this to a 7-year-old?

But back to Godly play: I used the script from Young Children and Worship (no weeping and gnashing of teeth), and stuck to it pretty faithfully though not exactly. I made a banquet table out of cardboard, used patterns from the book for food and the host, and then just used various people figures we had around the house for the guests. Our Great Banquet was quite diverse! It even included a horse, at The Boy's insistence. Here's a (bad) picture:

You can see that our Great Banquet isn't very pretty. It's not lovely like a wooden set would be, but the story was still shared. And after I shared the story, each kid told the story him/herself. It was sweet to see how they each did it differently, but still appropriately. In a full Godly Play session, the story should be followed by a creative expression time which allows the children to respond to the story (by drawing, or painting, or playing with figures...lots of different options), but we didn't do this at home. Maybe if this becomes a more regular practice, we'll work our way up to that.

In the meantime, I'm happy our our initial foray into Lent and Godly Play. And just for fun, here's a picture of from our Lent table right now:

The Boy picked up a rock on our walk the other day and added it to our wilderness. He also laid all the people down because they're "camping." Poor Jesus...looks like The Girl is sleeping on his head!

happy birthday to me

Yesterday was my birthday, the big 3-7.

Some birthday goodness:

• My Man made brown sugar peach pancakes (with local peaches we had frozen last summer) for breakfast - delicious!
• He also made lasagna for dinner (my request - it's what I always requested growing up). Also delicious!
• AND he made my most favorite cake ever - a chocolate sheet cake that is the recipe my mom uses. I don't actually care for cake much...usually...but this one is awesome! Because it's more like a brownie than a cake :).
• I am on Spring Break this week, so I did absolutely no schoolwork.
• Facebook helps you feel loved on your birthday :).
• The Boy and I cleaned the playroom. I know, I know...that's not a fun birthday task. But if you'd seen the playroom, you would realize how wonderful it feels to have it clean! And at The Boy's request, we brought back in the kitchen playset that was sitting in the garage (we'd put it there when the kiddoes stopped playing with it). It's like they have a brand-new toy!
• A box of clothing goodies from my mom.
• A haircut. (thanks to the gift card from my mother-in-law, it was a real haircut, not a Supercuts one)
• A beautiful story about A Pastor and A President (Joel Hunter & President Obama) that showed we can love each other across political lines.
• Happy Birthday e-mails and phone calls.
• Some sweet presents from the family.
• First, the above picture from My Girl (it's a BIG picture), and on the back is written: "Dear Mom, Happy Birthday Mom! I hope you enjoyed your day and the picture. I bet you liked the cake that Dad, J, and I made. I know how our family means to you. And I hope that meaning never changes. Love, C."
• Second, My Man asked the kiddoes a series of questions about me and recorded their answers (I had done this for him for Christmas). This is one of my most favorite birthday presents ever. Some of the best responses:
• What was Mommy like as a child?
• C: As far as I know, she really liked Sweet Pea (her stuffed cat that was mine when I was a kid).
• J: I forgot because that was a long time ago.
• How old is Mommy?
• C: 36. No, 37! Just write 37! (my girl likes to be right)
• J: I don't know. Is she 7 like C? I meant 17!
• What is Mommy not very good at?
• C: Making me clean up.
• J: You just have to tell me because I don't know. Knocking on the door?
• What is Mommy's favorite food?
• C: Uhhhhhhhhhh...a lot. (?!? I don't think I pig out around her!)
• J: Carrots
• If Mommy were a cartoon character, who would she be?
• C: Sally...no, wait, the Huntress...no wait, uh, what's the guy from Home Improvement (My Man: "Tim Taylor?") Yes! Tim Taylor's wife! Because she's serious. (and a cartoon character??)
• J: Thomas...if you pretend he's a girl.
• What is something Mommy always says to you?
• C: You are my special girl.
• J: I love you.

It was a good day. As a friend on facebook said yesterday...Yay, Me, for being born!

late for Lent: update on our foray into Godly Play

This weekend I actually did what I had planned: set up a Lenten table for our home. It's still a work in progress, but it's a start. Here's our version (using the Explore and Express version as a model):

The center is just a pie plate with sand (not real sand, homemade sand: mix 7 cups flour with 1 cup water), 4 peg people (one for each person in our family) and a Jesus I made out of posterboard. This represents our family in the 40 days of wilderness (Lent) with Jesus.

The white candle (yes, it's a Yankee Candle) is our Christ candle, and the little white dish has water in it. This is to signify Jesus' baptism (and our own, for hubby and me) just before he entered the wilderness.

The basket contains the pieces of our Lenten cross puzzle. The puzzle has six pieces, one for each Sunday of Lent. Put together, it looks like this:

Purple on one side, and...

White on the other (for when we get to Easter).

The cross is also just posterboard. I painted one side with purple acrylic paint, and it's supposed to look rough (not pretty and smooth, like the white side). In the future, I'd like to re-make the cross with foam board or mat board - something stronger and stiffer than posterboard, which still has a tendency to curl at the edges and doesn't hold together as a puzzle very easily. The Girl can make it work, but I don't think The Boy could put it together without getting too frustrated.

I had also planned to make prayer pots, thinking I would try this recipe for homemade model magic (air-dry clay), but then I realized we'd have to let them dry for days before we could use them, and we had too much else going on this weekend to get it done anyway. So instead I bought little terra cotta dishes (the kind that go under terra cotta flower pots), one for each kid:

The fabric heart represents God's love for us which is always, always with us. Each week we'll add a new symbol to the prayer pots, basically following Explore and Express's pattern (though since we're "late for Lent," we'll skip one of the symbols).

Our little Lent table (which is a little wooden table that my grandfather made for me when I was 2) sits right next to our TV cabinet in our living room. It's also next the door to our carport - the door we always use. I put it here because (1) it's just about the only available space in our small home and (2) it's in a place we'll see it. Every day, whenever we're in the house, we'll see it. And the kids play with it. There's often wilderness sand scattered on the purple cloth, which is just as it should be. I love that The Girl wants to keep adding to it (though it's such a small table, we're about out of room!). And the prayer pots, which don't fit on the table, sit in the middle of our dining table, one of the places we pray together and talk together as a family.

I'm very happy that we've started our Lenten journey together as a family, but now I've gotta start thinking about Easter so I won't be late for Easter!

FYI: For the Lenten puzzle and the figure of Jesus in the desert, I used the patterns out of the book Young Children and Worship, which was co-written by the original creator of Godly Play (Jerome Berryman) and contains a basic set of Godly Play stories and instructions for how you can make the story sets at home (you can also purchase beautiful wooden story sets, but they're not cheap).

late for Lent

I discovered a couple weeks ago that My Girl has been hearing things I don't agree with in a particular setting (how's that for vague?). It's something I really, REALLY don't want my kids taught, but I am probably in the minority on this and don't expect most other adults in our circles to agree with me.

Fortunately, My Girl asks questions.
Unfortunately, I freaked out a bit (though not in her presence).

And then I calmed down enough to realize that I can't control what my kids hear. I can't expect everyone to have the same beliefs and values and educational ideals as me. I know that My Girl is in a place she is loved and safe, and I know that I can't expect that my kids will somehow avoid different ideas than mine "until they're ready" (whatever that is).

Maybe they shouldn't. Maybe it's good that My Girl knows now that another adult and I disagree, that we don't have to be the same to respect one another, that we can question. Maybe it's good to begin these discussions now.

And maybe definitely it's good that I have been confronted with my own laxity.

I KNOW that education and development in the home are more important and have a longer-lasting effect that what occurs in the church building or schoolhouse or any other setting. I know that I shouldn't rely on any kind of curriculum or class or teacher, even when I trust that curriculum or class or teacher, to fully educate my kids. No matter the quality of a program, the primary responsibility for educating our children rests with my husband and me.

And I have been lax with faith development in the home. We pray at dinner and bed. We talk about the Sunday School story. We talk about questions as they come up. But there's not much concerted effort on my part to make our home a spiritual place...for all of us. Now, I don't want to go overboard. I don't want to make our home just another place for Bible story lessons...or any kind of lesson. They get enough lessons.

What I want is for there to be space for us to live...really live...acting out the stories and questions and rhythms of our faith with our hands and our hearts and our home.

When My Girl was little, I learned about Godly Play, a montessori-like curriculum/play for biblical stories and church seasons. It is unlikely we will ever be in a church with a Godly Play program (it's very different than traditional Sunday School), but I had this desire to incorporate some of the ideas and stories into our home. One year I made the Advent Godly Play story set and used it each week of Advent with My Girl. The Boy hadn't even been born yet...or he had just been born...I can't remember. I can't remember!!

I completely forgot about this Advent set until a few months ago I found it in a box somewhere.

How could I forget?
How Could I Forget?!

I guess I forgot because I had a baby, and we moved, and we struggled to find our place in our new city, and I felt lonely and unfocused, and I struggled to decide what to do with my work life, and our kids were in good programs, and somehow making a spiritual corner in our home (and my heart) was lost in the mix.

But I'm going to try again.

It would've been smart to begin with Lent, but I'm late for Lent. Oh well, part of Lent can be focusing on our failure, so really I was just in time for Lent! That's how I'm gonna think of it, anyway :). I turned to Pinterest for a quick search of Godly Play ideas and found this blog (Explore and Express), which looks like a wonderful place of do-able ideas for spiritual practice in the home. This weekend, I'm going to try to set up a Lenten nature table in our home, using the Explore and Express blogger's as a model.
And maybe we'll try to make some prayer pots.

More importantly, though, we'll try to begin the process of instilling some more regular spiritual rhythms in our home. Rhythms that are not intrusive and exhausting but instead facilitate a deeper exploration of our lives together and with God/dess. I'm not sure how to do this, and I'm sure failure will be a big part of it, but...

I will hold myself to a standard of grace, not perfection.

 To be continued...

support group

Now that I've finished my first fieldwork assignment for school, I've decided that we should all have a support group. Not just a group of friends or family, not just a group of people who will support you when life goes wonky; but a true, formal support group that meets regularly and officially.

There are no support groups for part-time secretaries who go to school full-time and have a family but don't have specific healthcare needs.

It's unfortunate.

Because I would love to be a part of a group that intentionally shares struggles and triumphs and everything in between. I know we do this with our friends and family, and maybe part of my desire stems from the fact that my circle of friends and family is small, but so often what we share with these circles is surface-y everyday stuff. What I share is what's going on with the kids; what My Man and I are are doing/planning; what's happening at school/work; maybe how I'm feeling, maybe not. All of this is good, important stuff that is crucial in community and a life shared, but sometimes it would be nice to have a space that was set apart for deeper things.

My husband says he has to read this blog to know the deep internal things of me.

And it's true - I don't say these bloggy things out loud very often. Not because I won't or don't want to, but because there's no specific space for it. Maybe that's why I keep writing to the handful of you who read these inner ramblings. It's a space for me to get out what is in.

I am grateful for this space, for this little piece of soul that lets me be small-ly known in the depths and the shallows. But this space is not enough. I edit myself in this space. I am not completely, unabashedly me. In the back of my mind I am always worrying about internet safety, oversharing, confidentiality. There are boundaries. Healthy (I hope) boundaries, but restraining boundaries.

And let's face it, blogging lets me be something of a coward because I know that some of those I love will read it and know, so I'm freed from the obligation to say it out loud.

But there's no substitute for looking someone in the eye. For a laugh heard, a tear caught, a hand held.

So I want a support group. A group that meets intentionally to share the inner life that is too often obscured. A group that accepts weakness, enourages growth, practices kindness, shines light into the dark places, and reminds us that we're not alone, even in the hidden depths. Not a class. Not a club. Not a movie night or dinner out.

A support group.

Now if I could just snap my fingers and make it happen. Anyone wanna join me in the snapping?
Yes?
No?

Maybe someday.

ashes to ashes

photo by The Cleveland Kid, flickr

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the 40-day-journey toward Easter. I didn't grow up noting this liturgical holy day. I began experimenting with the idea of Lent in college, and though I love the symbolism and the beauty and the intentional focus of this season of the church, I've never been very good at sticking with it. I may begin with an intention to give up something for 40 days, with the idea that it will remind me of Christ's sacrifice, but I always fail at it. I think the only time I ever stuck to a Lenten sacrifice was the year My Man and I gave up meat for Lent. But that's pretty easy for me. I don't mind giving up meat, so it's not actually a sacrifice.

Ann Voskamp says that failure is part of the purpose of Lent. It reminds us of our frailty, our sin, our hopelessness without a Savior. I don't subscribe to all of Voskamp's theology. I don't actually believe we deserve hell, as she states. But I think she may be right that getting Lent wrong is part of the point. Though I wouldn't say it reminds us of how wretched we are, I would say it reminds us of how much we are still on the journey. We are still in the midst of a life of work and care and hope and despair and success and failure. We set intentions because they are important guides, but we don't stick to our intentions (always) because life is hard and messy and sometimes we're just tired or lazy or downtrodden. We don't suck because of that. We just need help. And grace. Lots and lots of grace.

Last year I tried adding something to my life (praying at certain times and making/giving something every day) in Lent rather than taking away. I failed, miserably. Because of the way certain circumstances converged in my life, Lent ended up being truly a time of darkness, and for a moment, I wondered if I would come through with any real faith intact, which is quite scary for someone whose life so often revolves around church. I did come through with faith still present, but it's a looser faith (and I thought my faith was already loose!).

It's a faith that sustains me, but it's also one that I easily ignore. Life has been busy. So very busy. Life has been purposeful, which is good. But all that purpose makes it easier for me to ignore the inner workings of my soul, and when I do suddenly hear the inner workings, usually it's because they're bubbling over and I can't ignore it anymore - not necessarily healthy.

Last night at our Ash Wednesday service, I started to think about that ash that the pastors put on our foreheads. What is ash? What is that dark smudgy stuff? Does it matter that it’s ash and not something else? I’ve typically heard that this is the time for us to remember our mortality and Christ’s death. It’s a somber time. We don’t say “Alleluia” during this time. It can be kind of depressing. And I’m OK with that – life can be kind of depressing. It’s good to acknowledge that. But as I was thinking about this ashy stuff, it occurred to me that ash is the result of fire (duh) – ash is the result of a great, burning light (usually). Ash is the result of expended energy when that energy has performed its work.

Ash is rest.

At the end of these 40 days, we remember that Jesus died. After years of amazing, meaningful work, Jesus rested. His work was done. I don’t mean that God/dess was done, but Jesus, the man, he was done. His purpose was fulfilled. His love had been shared to weave its strands of pulling-life throughout the world. His life continued to work among us, but He was at rest.

We are not done with this life, and there is much good work to be done. But I need to be reminded that ultimately, whatever light I shine will burn only so long before a time of restful ash. Periodic rest and ultimate rest. I cannot continually feed the fire. A fire out of control is a dangerous fire. Sometimes that fire must be stilled.

So this Lent, I'm not adding anything to my life. I'm not even setting a very intentional intention. I'm just going to attempt to find more space in these 40 days. Space to listen. Space to draw. Space to hear. Space to commune. Space to rest.

May this season be a time of welcoming the darkness, for it is often in darkness that the light shines brightest.